


Awake

by foxybadger42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 06:05:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxybadger42/pseuds/foxybadger42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: Story is mine. James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran belong to Sir Conan Doyle. BBC Sherlock to the BBC. No profit made. Just for fun.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Awake

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Story is mine. James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran belong to Sir Conan Doyle. BBC Sherlock to the BBC. No profit made. Just for fun.

Something had gone wrong. He should be dead. Was Sherlock dead? He couldn’t hear him. Or see him. Did he live? Had he jumped? Was Watson dead?

He must have passed out surely. But why wasn’t he dead? His body felt cold and apart from blinking slowly he couldn’t move at all. His limbs felt useless and not part of his body anymore. Hell, did he even have limbs? Was he even alive? All the could see was the stretch of the roof in front of him, the low wall that marked the edge of the roof disrupting his view. He had to be dead. But he could feel his blood slowly being pumped through his body, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. He was alive. 

‘You asshole!’ he heard that familiar voice snap at him and a shade hovered over him. He wanted to lift his head up and look at his sniper, but his neck didn’t move when his brain told it to.

‘Why didn’t you take a bigger calibre!’ Moran shouted and he could hear the sound of fabric tearing. His head suddenly moved and was lifted and it seemed Moran was doing something to him. But what? Why was he touching him? Was he even toughing him? He didn’t realise how Moran wrapped his torn sleeve around his head, trying to stop the bleeding.

He didn’t realise. Because he didn’t feel.

He tried to speak, only an inaudible moan escaping his lips, protesting about what he was feeling. Or what he wasn’t. He remembered Moran’s hands; warm and strong, and he was sure they were touching his head, face, neck as the marksman tried to press the fabric against his wound. He didn’t feel it.


End file.
